


return and return

by FunAndWhimsy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Future Fic, Mutual Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunAndWhimsy/pseuds/FunAndWhimsy
Summary: Years after the end of the war, Bernadetta takes a post as the ambassador to Brigid. In her absence, she and Hubert find a thousand ways to say a thousand things to each other, but upon her return Hubert doubts his own ability to find the words to say the one thing they both need so badly.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49
Collections: Hubernie Week





	return and return

**Author's Note:**

> My final fic for Hubernie week! It's been fun.

The work has already begun when Hubert arrives, and what was only a moon ago a dark and foreboding place is already coming alive under the attention of the small staff he hired. Flowering vines climb newly-constructed trellises in place of the ivy clinging to the walls and threatening to break through windows. broken stones in the path have been replaced and fresh mortar laid to smooth the walk, shutters opened and windows cleaned. The manor almost looks inviting from the road, even knowing what Hubert knows about how happy its sole occupant will be to return here. Hubert walks the grounds after putting his horse up in the stable, and is quite pleased with the work his people have done. The gardens have been cleared of weeds and the soil turned over, ready for the loving attention they will surely receive as soon as their mistress has rested from her journey, the grass and trees neatly trimmed, the outbuildings set straight and draped with an air of coziness from being lived in for the first time in years. Hubert nods to himself, slips the notepad from his pocket and writes a reminder to raise the already generous salary of the staff, and sets off for the door of Varley manor to see the interior set right for Bernadetta's return.

-

Hubert,

I don't need to tell you how bad I am at saying what I mean to, you've known me long enough and received enough of my post-conversation letters. You're easier to talk to than most - have you ever heard that before, from anyone? I'm sorry to tarnish your image - but that isn't always enough. I didn't manage to apologize, even. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving; I should have known it would get to you through official channels if I waited too long. It's a scary thing to do, and you've always been so good at talking me into trying scary things, but I'm also very good at talking myself out of them, and I thought if I had a conversation I'd do it again.

I also don't think I could have talked to you without telling you something important, and I'm braver now than I used to be but it was a scary thing to think about saying out loud. Writing is easier, it's always been easier.

When Edelgard asked if I was sure, I almost told her no. Not because I'm afraid of leaving, not any more afraid than I've been of hundreds of other things I've done since Garreg Mach, but because I kept thinking of you. Is there anyone in Brigid who would keep sugar with their coffee even though they don't like it, because I do? Or show me the secret poison garden at the palace, because the plants are bright and unusual and they think I might like to sketch them? Who's going to take walks with me in the middle of the night because neither of us can sleep? I've always enjoyed being quiet with you, Hubert; maybe I will find someone who does those things for me, or with me, but it won't be anyone I like half as much.

This is something I need to do, and I think you understand that more than most people would. And that was something I needed to say, even though I botched my chance and wrote it instead. I'm sorry to say it and run - or I guess run, and say it - but maybe by the time I return I'll have figured out how to be just a little bit braver.

Yours,

Bernadetta

-

Before Hubert's arrival, the master bedroom was emptied and thoroughly cleaned; most furniture was destroyed or donated, though a few key pieces were moved to the attic for Bernadetta to decide what to do with. The floors were stripped, sanded, and refinished, the walls painted, the windows fitted with heavy-duty blinds to shut out even the most insistent light. Now, under his supervision, plush new rugs are brought in, and the furniture commissioned from one of the finest carpenters in Enbarr, and small touches both new and pulled from Bernadetta's childhood bedroom. The bed has posts for a canopy if Bernadetta wishes to hide herself away - as Hubert understands, that is the style in Brigid, and it seems like the sort of thing Bernadetta might have become used to - but looks fine unadorned as well, with carved vines climbing up the posts and across the head and footboards. There is a vanity, with similar carvings around the mirror and strange flowers on the drawers, and a large wardrobe to match, and Hubert's favorite piece, a massive desk that can serve as a writing surface or a worktable for some of her many projects. It will take a lot of clutter before she's rendered it unusable, though he has no doubt she can manage that.

Once the room is arranged to his liking and the bed made, the curtains hung, the potted plants and inkwells and clean paper and plush animals placed, Hubert moves on to the rest of the house. His efforts are not so lavish elsewhere; Edelgard quite thankfully noticed how swept up in the whole thing he was getting and talked him down from practically razing the house to the ground and rebuilding anew. The sitting room is freshened and redecorated, the dining room given new table and chairs, the kitchen cleaned within an inch of its life but otherwise untouched. In short, the rooms where Bernadetta found comfort, solace, and occasionally joy are left as she must remember them, and the rest is rendered as close to unrecognizable as Hubert can manage. Her homecoming should be a happy occasion; perhaps happy enough she will want to stick around for a while.

-

Dear Hubert,

I think you might be the only person who understands this and won't write back teasing me about how I used to hide and run away: I'm actually a little lonely here. Isn't that silly? I'm talking to more people more of the time than I ever have before (you probably know how many meetings and parties and events and appearances being an ambassador entails, but I still feel the need to say it's _so many_!), but when I'm alone in my room at the end of the day I find myself wishing for, I don't know, company. All the time I spent being okay on my own was for nothing, I suppose. Petra and Dorothea take such good care of me, I almost think if I told them I was lonely at night they would invite me into their bed like a scared child after a nightmare.

(Do you think parents actually do that? I hear about it, but of course mine never did. I'm sure yours didn't either. It's a nice thought, though, isn't it?)

It's just weird to know so many of my friends are so far away; I hadn't realized just how much time I was spending in Enbarr before I left until I got here and took dinner in my room because I was tired from the trip, and couldn't remember the last time I had dinner alone. It's so strange, the things we get used to without noticing. Do you miss me insisting you take afternoon tea with me because I know you skip lunch as much as I do? There are so many things I see every day I think I'll tell you about at tea and then we don't have tea because I'm so far away. 

Oh, I don't want to sound like I'm unhappy. I'm glad I'm here, I'm glad I pushed myself. Brigid is beautiful, it's so good to see Dorothea so happy and Petra ruling so well, and I'm learning new things every day, all the time. Every other letter I've written this morning has been about the good things, but when I started to write to you all I could think about was missing you. Someday, when Edelgard insists you take a vacation, perhaps we can travel together somewhere, and I can just turn to you and tell you what I want to instead of having to make a note in my sketchbook somewhere. Also I'm sorry this letter is so thick with those notes, and a few pressed leaves I thought you'd be interested in. The flowers are beautiful and smell so sweet I just want to roll around in their bushes, but the leaves are so razor-sharp you could easily cut yourself badly enough to bleed out while doing so. 

Yours,

Bernadetta

-

Hubert isn't much in the kitchen, though he's a damn sight better than he used to be. His body at thirty is far less tolerant of his bad habits than his body at twenty-one, and learning how to prepare a few things rather than relying on someone else all the time or simply pretending coffee is a meal turned out to be a necessity. He won't win any awards, but he can provide Bernadetta with a warm, hearty meal to welcome her home and be sure it won't poison her or taste mostly of charcoal. It helps that Bernadetta isn't especially picky, though he's loath to compromise all the work he's put in on her perfect homecoming by making something she is merely not dissatisfied with. 

He has the recipe in Mercedes' neat, loopy handwriting, pulled from her memory of meals at the Academy, and mercifully written plainly for an amateur cook. He has all the necessary supplies, purchased at the market before he headed up the mountain, and he has plenty of time. It's quite relaxing, actually, to simply follow directions and let his mind wander. He chops vegetables into tidy, uniform cubes and thinks through everything that needs to be done; he measures spices and vinegar and butter and thinks through the tasks he can help with once Bernadetta's arrived, having her stored belongings delivered, catching her up on all the news that wasn't worth writing about; he coats the vegetables in oil and salt to roast and thinks only of how nice it will be to see her face again, to hear her voice.

There are things Hubert needs to say, things he has needed to say longer than he's known he needed to, and he will need to decide when and how to say them. He has no answer as he puts the slices of fish into the marinade, or when he banks the fire so the vegetables don't overcook, or as he places the bread by the oven to warm. It's an uncomfortable feeling, for someone as meticulous as Hubert, as devoted to his careful plans, but he does his best to push it aside. He has taken a fortnight for helping Bernadetta resettle, there is time enough for whatever happens to happen.

Hubert isn't sure whether this is some of that fabled calm people are always insisting he learn to achieve, or if it's simple cowardice in the face of emotions that frighten him. He'll find out soon enough.

-

Dearest Hubert,

It's hard to believe this is the last letter I'll send you from Brigid; I'm so used to my routine, now, of writing things down whenever I can so I don't forget to tell you, of sitting down once a week to try and put it all into few enough words it won't take one mail ship just to take my letters to you across the sea. 

I learned how to give tattoos, did I mention? Petra was admiring my botanical drawings and, well, one thing led to another. It's an interesting process; a little bit gruesome, but only until you get used to it, and I haven't found a medium yet I don't like making things in. There's something wonderful in creation, whether it's with yarn or fabric or charcoal or pen or needle, to go to sleep knowing there's something in the world that wasn't there before you woke up. And to have someone love what you create so much they ask to have it embedded in their skin to keep forever - it's very thrilling. I don't know if you'll find this odd, but I found myself thinking of you the whole time I was giving Petra and Dorothea their matching flowers. I don't know if you're much of an artist, if you've even tried, but there was something very _you_ about the whole process, the precision required in what is at its core a fairly brutal task. I hope it doesn't offend if I tell you that place where precision and brutality meet is the place I think you're most comfortable. 

I wonder if there's anything you've loved enough to want to make it a part of your body, to carry it with you, as a part of you, the whole rest of your life. Although now that I say that, I wonder if there's anything you _don't_ love enough; I think when something is important to you, you don't really need the ink and needles, do you? I suppose every battle scar you have is a tattoo, a mark of your devotion pushed beneath your skin.

That sounds awfully morbid, doesn't it? I hope you take it as a compliment. I mean it as a compliment. I think the way you care so deeply is beautiful, and so often these past few years I've wished I were more like you. I miss you terribly, Hubert, and sometimes I worry you don't know that.

I should wrap up now; I think perhaps these hours where the night and the morning meet are more suited to maudlin fiction than to letters. It's just that I realized how soon I'll be leaving, and with how long mail takes to get to you this is really my last chance to write before we can have a conversation again. I'm so much better at saying what I want than I used to be - I think you'll be impressed! - but it's still easier to write. 

My itinerary is enclosed, in case there's anything that needs to be done at the manor before I arrive, and some of my sketches. Maybe if something strikes your fancy I can tattoo it on you when I return.

Yours,

Bernadetta.

-

It's cold out, even for the Wyvern Moon, even considering Hubert is higher in the mountains than usual. Whichever ancestor settled in this place that became Varley, built the house that kept Bernadetta captive in her unhappy childhood, must have liked the cold. Or, considering the sort of people the Varley line has, with a few notable exceptions, produced, perhaps they simply wished to elevate themselves, to keep a high and watchful eye over the people of their county like the goddess in her orbit. Either way, the manor sits just high enough for the air to thin a little and the cold to bite with sharper teeth, and Hubert worries about Bernadetta, spoiled as she must be by the endless summers of Brigid. He builds, but does not yet light, a truly massive blaze in the master bedroom fireplace, and takes a pile of blankets with him to the sitting room. 

This fire he lights, as it's close enough to the dining room to keep an eye on, and he places the stack of blankets close by so they can soak in the heat and be that much warmer for their mistress. He moves, once again, a chair he has already moved three times since he arrived before settling on a location, because none of his arranging accounted for a wish or need to sit close to the fire, and when he's confident anyone sitting there will be warmed quite thoroughly he returns to the dining room. There's no fireplace here, as it takes its heat from the kitchen on one side and the sitting room on the other, but he lights a number of tall candles and places them on the table, to invoke a sense of warmth though they're too small to impart it. 

The last brilliant colors of the sunset are fading into the blue-black of night when he finishes; Bernadetta is late. Hubert has no reason to be concerned, and that's not quite the emotion he'd assign to the energy thrumming in his veins, but he's sure that's what his pacing would look like if there were anyone to see it. Bernadetta knows how to reach him, and his methods of immediate contact over distances were developed for spies in the middle of a war so even if something truly foul had happened she would have been able to let him know. It's simply a long trip from the port, and any of a thousand small delays could easily add up to hours lost. The roads are safe these days, even in the dark, and Bernadetta is more than capable of handling anything that might come up. Hubert would simply feel better if she were here already.

Once Hubert declared his intention to take some time off, Edelgard absolutely refused to pass any work his way so Hubert has nothing official to distract himself with, but he has letters to write so he sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee nearly as dark as the night sky and writes. It's odd, to tend to his correspondence and not be writing to Bernadetta so far away; he always wrote to her last, once other letters helped him put his thoughts in order. He hasn't yet shaken the habit of keeping a bit of spare paper to the side so he can note things he wishes to share with her, and he is just in the middle of reminding himself about an absurd story about Caspar's mercenary exploits when the front door opens.

"Oh, it smells _good_ in here!" Bernadetta says, and Hubert is surprised at how different she doesn't sound. What he expected a mere two years to do to her voice he cannot say, but he is surprised nonetheless. He shakes it off and rises to meet her in the hall, but when he sees her he finds he has nothing to say.

Bernadetta is at once lovely and ridiculous; her hair is long, and all the same length for the first time since she first cut it into that odd fashion at the start of the war, and a few pieces are done up in braids and pinned up to keep them out of her face. None of her traveling clothes fit, least of all the bulky fur coat she's swaddled in, and it all makes her look oddly small. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and her soft eyes are bright and warm and a little surprised. She is the most beautiful woman Hubert has ever seen and he has gone far too long without looking at her.

"You're here?" she says, tilting her head a little.

"I told you I would be."

"Oh," she says, and laughs. "Is that what you meant? When you said you'd get the house ready I thought you meant you'd hire someone."

"I did," Hubert says. "A housekeeper, a groundskeeper, some help for each. But I wanted to see to it personally. I hope you're not disappointed."

Bernadetta steps forward and goes up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek; her skin is cold but a warmth like nothing Hubert's ever known spreads from the touch of her lips through his veins faster than the flow of his blood. 

"Of course not," she says. "I hope you didn't keep the cook too late? I would have sent word ahead if I'd known."

"No cook," Hubert says. "I - it's only a simple dinner, and I often eat late anyway so it's no trouble."

" _You_ cooked?" she asks, and laughs again, not unkindly. "Wow."

"I'm full of surprises," he says, and finally manages to get himself together enough to help with her coat. It's at least two sizes too large and bulky on top of that, it's a wonder she hasn't drowned in it.

"I forgot about the cold," she says, nodding at it as Hubert hangs it up. "Or, I didn't really, but I left all my winter things here. I had to buy clothes before I could set out, it's why I'm so late."

"More time for the house to get warm," Hubert says. There is so much more to say, all the things that couldn't fit into years of letters, but he finds the words still aren't coming to him. But more than that, he feels no urgency to come up with them, no pressing need. "Are you comfortable?"

"Very," Bernadetta says, and sets off for the kitchen, exclaiming as she goes over every little thing Hubert changed, the new art on the walls, the fresh flowers in vases here and there, the cleanliness. She doesn't miss a thing, and each word of praise is another spark catching the fire building in Hubert, the warmth spreading through him. He follows behind, makes the occasional comment about where he found something or other, until they reach the kitchen and he breaks away so he can saute the fish.

Never one to sit still for long unless she has a project, Bernadetta putters around the kitchen while Hubert cooks, heating up water for tea (so she has to duck around Hubert, cooking fish on the stovetop), and setting the table while it boils. She laughs and claps her hands together with delight when she opens a cupboard to find it fully, freshly stocked with tea, and Hubert is glad for the heat of the cooking fire so perhaps his blush will be less obvious. She gets out the bread and the roast vegetables kept warm in their heavy pan, and by the time the fish is cooked she's served the sides and poured tea for them both. It's astonishingly easy, as if they've done this a thousand times before and this isn't the very first time they've eaten together when someone else wasn't preparing the meal, when it was only the two of them.

"Oh, like at school!" Bernadetta says, when Hubert serves her the fish, and he'll have to make sure to tell Mercedes her faintly-remembered recipe was immediately recognizable. "Can I tell you something silly?"

"Of course," Hubert says, as he serves himself and sets the pan aside. It's not a half-bad meal, all things considered, and Bernadetta looks even happier than he hoped.

"The first time the professor invited me to eat with her, you were there," Bernadetta says. "I was still so scared of you, but I was more scared of having to make up an excuse for the professor so I could leave, so I decided I would just have to stick it out. And then you mentioned how much you liked this dish, and I thought, oh, if we have the same favorite food maybe he's not so bad after all. And I suppose I was right, you _weren't_ so bad, but what kind of reasoning is that?"

"I'll take the compliment, silly or not," Hubert says; her smile is so warm it feels as if he might burn alive. Thankfully she begins to eat rather than compliment him further, though the way she moans and sighs over every bite is hardly better. He isn't usually so easily affected, but then his tolerance is low after so long without her, and all her beautiful letters pushed him to realize things he had done quite well not realizing. 

As they eat, Bernadetta tells him about her trip home, and Brigid, and Petra and Dorothea's blissful life together, and Hubert tells her about his journey to Varley, the current state of politics, the things he must put up with in Enbarr. It is the finest meal with the finest company he's had in some time, and as their cups and plates empty he finds himself slowing down, not wishing it to end. But it's been a long day for him, a long journey for her, and soon enough Bernadetta is yawning more than speaking.

"I'll clean up," he says, and rises to begin gathering dishes. "You should get some rest. Your old room is perfectly serviceable, but I've taken care to get the master suite ready for you as well."

"Oh, I - thank you, that's very sweet." Bernadetta goes up on her toes to kiss his cheek again, and Hubert very nearly turns his head to make it a proper kiss but by the time he thinks of it she's already across the room. That's alright; they have time. He puts the dishes in to soak, wraps the remaining bread in napkins for the morning, and walks the whole of the ground floor putting out fires as he goes. The housekeeper he hired will begin in the morning, and the cook, so Bernadetta will wake to a warm house and a fine breakfast, and Hubert will have another chance to say what he means to. Firm in his resolve, he ascends the stairs to the guest room he prepared for himself, only to find Bernadetta standing at the end of the hall, eyes sparkling with tears. She looks back at the bedroom with its new furniture, and at Hubert, and opens her mouth as if to speak but nothing comes out.

"I didn't think you would want any of your father's furniture," he says.

"It's beautiful. I - oh, I'm so much better at writing than talking."

"You don't need to say anything," he says. "It was my pleasure."

"But that's - oh, _Hubert_ , of course it was, because you're so - I had a plan, I practiced, and then you made dinner, and then this, and I can't - oh, you're so frustrating."

Hubert frowns and walks down the hall towards her. "Have I upset you?"

"I'm so in love with you," she says, and it hits Hubert like a lance to the abdomen but she doesn't seem to notice, just keeps talking. "I love you so much, I've been _pining_ , and I was going to - I was all ready to say something and then you were so _nice_ to me and I lost all the words, it isn't fair."

"I love you, too," Hubert says, the only thing he can say, the only words he ever needed. "I - of course I'm nice to you."

Bernadetta laughs, and that's all the warning he has before she throws herself at him so he barely manages to keep from falling over as she flings her arms around his neck and kisses him properly, seriously, the finest kiss of Hubert's life. It's as if everything in the world has always been just a little off-center and now it's clicking into place, as if everything makes a different kind of sense now that he has this, and Hubert holds her as tightly as he can and kisses her with all the passion he can muster until she pulls away, bright-eyed and smiling.

"I'm going to seduce you properly," she says, and he certainly has nothing to say to _that_. "But for tonight, would you - I've been alone so long, Hubert, would you stay with me?"

"Forever," Hubert says, and he has made many promises in his life but he's never meant a single one more.


End file.
